


Gethsemane

by Enochian Things (Salr323)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s06e18 Frontierland, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Enochian%20Things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For the first time in too long Dean lets himself relax.  It could be the drink, but he’s pretty sure it’s something more profound than anything he could find in the bottom of a bottle. He’s pretty sure it’s Cas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gethsemane

**Author's Note:**

> Zooming through S6, I had to stop and write this because OMG Wounded!Cas. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr as [enochian-things](http://www.enochian-things.tumblr.com/) so come and say hi! :)

Dean wakes, as he often does, on full alert and for no good reason. Outside, the wind whips through the trees, rattling branches like old bones, howling through the salvage yard. Maybe that’s what woke him. Or maybe it was a bad dream he can’t remember. Or maybe it was the thought of Eve, and phoenix ash, and the battle yet to come.

Doesn’t matter anyway. He’s awake and he won’t be going back to sleep tonight. He lays there for a while, listening to Sam snore where he’s sprawled, long limbs spilling over the edge of the narrow cot, in Bobby’s cramped spare room. Insomnia’s a bitch at the best of times, but there’s nothing worse than the sound of someone else sleeping when you’re gritty-eyed and fidgety with fatigue. He’s tempted to throw a pillow at Sam, to shut him up, but the big brother in him thinks better of it and he gets up instead.

Pulling on his jeans and a shirt, he makes his way into the kitchen in search of something to take the edge off. Whatever Bobby has lying about, it has to be better than the gut-rot he found in Sunrise. And really, he’s not that fussy. Not at oh-dark-thirty at any rate.

He finds a bottle on Bobby’s desk, a glass that’s more or less clean, and pours. The first sip burns good, hits all the right spots, and he feels his tension start to ease off – not far, but enough that he can take a breath. It’s only when he turns around that he notices Cas. He’s lying on the sofa looking for all the world like he’s sleeping, although Dean knows full well that angels don’t sleep. But his eyes are closed, his coat falling away, and there’s a faint blue light seeping from beneath his jacket.

It looks a lot like angel mojo, and Dean’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be leaking out.

Bringing the bottle with him, he comes to sit on the chair opposite, stretches out his legs and watches. The fact that Cas is still here is strange enough, given their fleeting encounters over the past couple of years. And he’s pretty sure it’s connected with the bloody sigil scrawled on the kitchen wall. Bobby said it was a ward to hide Cas from Raphael and his – her – cronies, but it comes to something when Cas is choosing to hide out at Bobby’s rather than wherever it is he calls home upstairs.

Dean’s not sure what that means, but he can’t help feeling... Pleased? Maybe. Not that he’d admit it to anyone, but he misses Cas. He doesn’t have a lot of friends. Scratch that, he doesn’t have _any_ friends. He has family and that’s it: Sam, Bobby, Lisa, Ben. Family he’s tied to, duty-bound to protect with his life. But Cas? He’s something different. 

He respects Cas, admires a lot about the nerdy sonofabitch, but he doesn’t feel tied to him like he does to Sam. With Cas, his loyalty is entirely voluntary, born in the crucible of the Apocalypse and their mutual decision to give the finger to destiny. No, he’s not bound to Cas like he’s bound to Sam, but he _is_ bound to him nonetheless. They’ve got each other’s backs because they _choose to_ \- because they’re friends, brothers in arms. And that’s not nothing. To Dean, it means a hell of a lot more than he’s ever said out loud.

Besides – he smiles at the memory – Cas makes him laugh. Or at least he did, back before he became the stressed-out warrior flaked out on the sofa in front of him. His smile turns melancholy, then fades, and he he lifts the glass to his lips again. When he lowers it, he finds Cas watching him, eyes glinting in the darkness. 

“Hello Dean.”

“You’re still here I see,” Dean says, by way of reply.

Cas sits up with a wince. His hand goes under his jacket and the faint blue light dims. “I needed to rest a little longer.”

“You’re hurt.”

He nods, his gaze wandering across the room. “I was ...”

“Betrayed,” Dean says. “I heard.”

Castiel’s gaze finds him at last and settles, brow drawn into an uneasy frown. “The cost of this war is very high, Dean, and I have had to do ... We have _all_ had to do regrettable things in order to win. Rachel ...” He drops his head, shakes it. “She didn’t have the stomach for the fight, in the end.”

Dean watches him for a moment, the way he’s resting his elbows on his knees, head bowed like he’s curling around the pain of his injury. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Cas looked defeated. “She was a friend of yours?” 

“She was—” He scrubs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. “Yes.” His voice drops lower still. “She was a friend. I regret what I had to do.”

“Looks like she took a pop at you too,” Dean says, with a gesture toward Cas’s chest. 

“She tried to kill me, yes.”

He can still see the faint seep of light, the dark blood on Cas’s white shirt. It makes him tense in a way he can’t define. “Then I’m glad you got there first,” he says.

Cas doesn't reply and they fall into the easy silence they often used to share. Dean refills his glass, sinks lower in the chair. Outside, the wind is still howling, battering around Bobby’s house. Cas’s eyes are watchful, fixed on the windows, expecting trouble. After a while his mouth moves, as if he’s trying to articulate something, and he looks at Dean with that familiar frown of confusion. “I can’t stop thinking about her wings.”

“Rachel’s wings?” He offers a teasing smile. “What's that, some kinda angel kink?”

“I mean the physical manifestation of the transcendental concept.” 

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Sure you do.”

“After I—” Cas’s hand flutters in an impatient gesture toward the floor. “After Rachel died, the shadow on the ground... I keep seeing it.” He taps his head. “Up here.”

Ah. Well, if Dean had a penny for every dead face that’s haunted his dreams he’d be a rich man and might not get so pissed off when he couldn’t sleep at night. “Comes with the territory,” he reminds Cas. “You’ll get over it.”

“Will I?”

There's such earnest hope in his voice that something tightens in Dean’s chest; typical Cas, not having the decency to accept a perfectly good white lie to get past a difficult moment. Ignoring the question, Dean says, “She’s not the first angel you’ve killed.” And then he winces because Cas has literally just told him that Rachel was a friend, and no one gets over having to kill a friend. “Look,” he says, trying again, “it’s a war, right? Shit happens. And the only reason it bothers you so much is because you’re one of the good guys, Cas. Rachel probably wouldn’t have given you a second thought.”

Cas's eyes are fixed on the floor when he says, “Sometimes I wonder about that.”

“About Rachel?”

There’s a long silence. “Rachel," Cas says eventually, "thought she was doing the right thing.”

“So did Lucifer,” Dean points out, and drains his glass for the second time. “They were both wrong.”

Cas is silent again, chewing his lip. He looks uncertain – the way he’d looked before he made his choice to rebel. Dean wonders what on Earth, or in Heaven come to that, could be more difficult than that choice. “She...” Cas shakes his head as if trying to dislodge an idea, and then sits up straighter. “No, you’re right,” he says. “She _was_ wrong. The only thing that matters is defeating Raphael. Rachel lost sight of that.”

“Attaboy,” Dean says and reaches for the bottle again. He waves it toward Cas. “You want some?”

A slight smile touches his lips. “I could use something a little stronger.”

“Hey.” Dean holds up a warning hand. “If you’re wanting to manhandle my soul, you can forget it.” 

Cas doesn’t answer and his smile, such as it was, starts to fade. He looks tired, Dean realizes. Bone tired and he doesn’t just mean physically. Cas looks like a man stretched thin, pulled tight between two posts and unable to escape. Dean’s not exactly Dr. Phil, but he figures everyone needs to talk – even all-powerful angels of the Lord. “Look,” he ventures after the silence has grown deep, “you wanna tell me what’s going on up there, Cas?”

His expression tightens. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he says, “but the situation is on a knife edge and until we’ve won ...” 

“What?” Dean gives a laugh and tries not to feel offended. “You think I’ll screw up your game plan if you tell me?”

Cas passes a hand over his face, as if gathering patience. “It would be difficult ... Until the war is won, it would be difficult to explain why I—” He hesitates. “I would rather wait until it’s over. Then you’ll understand.”

Dean swallows a mouthful of whisky and pushes to his feet. “Fine. I get it. The mud-monkey’s too stupid to understand—”

“That’s not it,” Cas snaps with a flash of anger. “It’s the opposite of that.”

“Oh, I’m too _smart_ to understand?”

“Stop being childish,” Cas growls, also standing, grimacing as he jostles his wound. “This isn’t about you, Dean. It’s about the fate of the world, of Heaven – of creation itself! And you have no idea what I— Why I—” Frustrated, he turns away, but Dean grabs him by the coat and hauls him back around. 

“Then _tell me_ ,” he hisses. “Tell me what’s going on, Cas.” He waves his hand holding the whisky around the room, spilling it over his fingers. “You ever think that maybe we can help you? Maybe this thing with Eve is part of what you’re up against? Maybe we should be damn-well working _together_?”

Cas stares at him and there’s something inexpressibly sad in his eyes. “Believe me when I say that there are times – frequent times – when I wish I could do just that. And maybe if I’d— But, Dean, whatever happens, I want you to understand that everything I’m doing – everything I’ve _done_ – is for you, _because of_ you. You taught me that free will is worth fighting for - and worth dying for if I have to.”

Dean’s fingers tighten in his coat. “You’re not going to die.”

“You don’t know that,” Cas says, brutally honest as always. “But if I do, if I die tomorrow, then it’ll be for something I believe in.” He tips his head to the side. “You understand that, don’t you? You understand that some things are so important that you have to do anything – _anything_ – to protect them.”

Dean blinks, realizes he’s still gripping Cas’s coat, and lets him go. But Cas doesn’t move back, he just stands there waiting for an answer. 

“I do,” Dean says at last. “I understand there are things worth dying for.”

“And killing for,” Cas adds.

He nods. “That too. But I don’t understand why you won’t let me help you.”

“Because...” Cas looks away, dropping his gaze. “Because you can’t,” he says eventually. “It’s not possible.”

If it was anyone else standing there, not meeting his eye, he’d think they were lying. But this is Castiel: he doesn’t lie. Hell, he can’t even tell a _white_ lie. “Okay,” Dean says, smoothing down Cas’s coat where his fingers have left the lapel even more rumpled than usual, “but you gotta promise me that if you need help, you’ll ask.”

Again, that fleeting smile that looks like it’s been surprised out of him. “Thank you, Dean.”

“And, uh,” his hand closes on Cas’s shoulder. “Look, Rachel said we only ever call you when we need something. But you know that’s not true, right?”

“It does seem to be true.”

“Well, okay, but that’s only because you’ve been all ‘I have a war to fight, stop bothering me!’ But if you ever want to just flutter down for a beer... No need to wait for an invite, is all I’m saying.”

“I don’t drink—”

“Cas.”

“Okay,” he relents. “I understand. And thank you. I hope—” He swallows and there’s rather more human emotion in his voice than Dean’s used to hearing. “I hope that one day I’ll be able to ‘flutter down for a beer.’ I would— I would like that.” 

“Any time,” Dean says, dropping his hand from his shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger, dude. I mean that.”

Cas just nods, then with a heavy sigh glances up at the ceiling – or, probably, a lot further up than that. “I should go.”

“Come on,” Dean says. “It’s late. Stay 'till morning.”

Cas looks at him, like he’s about to argue that there’s no day and night in Heaven, but apparently he thinks better of it. His gaze drifts back to the sofa, and it doesn’t take much effort for Dean to propel him in that direction with a hand on his shoulder. Cas sits. Actually, it’s more like he’s legs give out and he crumples, sagging into the sofa, head back and eyes closed. “I am weary,” he admits, and Dean’s pretty sure he means ‘of everything.’

More slowly, he sits down next to him and hands over the whisky, nudging it against Cas’s hand. “Here, it might help.”

He opens his eyes, takes the bottle and a long drink, and sighs. “Things are very complex now.” 

“Yeah.” But then, when weren’t they?

“It was simpler before, during the Apocalypse.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Ah, the good ol’ days.”

“I wouldn’t call them good,” Cas clarifies earnestly, “but they were at least straight forward.”

“Yeah, straight forward bad.”

Cas doesn’t answer that and when Dean glances over he sees that his eyes are shut again, his fingers going slack on the neck of the bottle. He rescues it before it falls. Outside, the sky is turning from black to inky-blue but inside he can still see the faint glow from beneath Cas’s jacket. Perhaps it’s because he’s still wounded that his body is giving in to something as human as sleep; it probably helps to heal the vessel along with any other healing Cas has to do. 

Whatever the reason, he does seem to be asleep and after a while Dean feels a subtle shift in weight as Cas slowly sinks sideways to lean against him. He almost moves out of the way, giving him the sofa, but in the end he stays put. There’s something comforting about Cas’s slow breathing, about the press of his shoulder against Dean’s arm, the loll of his head against his own, and he finds his eyes growing heavy as he sits there nursing his third whisky.

For the first time in too long he lets himself relax. It could be the drink, but he’s pretty sure it’s something more profound than anything he could find in the bottom of a bottle. 

He’s pretty sure it’s Cas.

Ever since he reached into the pit to drag him out, Cas has had his back. Time and time again he’s sacrificed, fought himself bloody, and even _died_ for him: steadfast, honorable, loyal Castiel. Truth is, Cas has become the single unswerving point of certainty in the whole screwed up treacherous world in which Dean lives. And he’s the only one – the _only_ one – Dean can absolutely trust all of the time. Sitting there in the pre-dawn light with him, Dean realizes it’s that trust, that faith he has in Castiel, that’s letting him feel something like peace. 

Closing his eyes, he embraces the fleeting sensation and lets sleep come.

END


End file.
